


Whumptober 2020

by Soobiebear



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: #whumptober2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soobiebear/pseuds/Soobiebear
Summary: I'm trying to do it.  A new fic every day around the given prompts.  Might be shit, might be good, but getting words on a page and back into the habit of writing is what it's all about.  I'm warning in advance for now, there will be death and misery and male/male sex and probably every tag you can stick on a fic.
Comments: 41
Kudos: 15
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME

Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

When Richard woke up he realized he couldn’t move and that his wrists were particularly sore. It was dark and he couldn’t see well, adding to his growing panic.

“Oh, you’re awake again?”

Richard tried to swing around in the darkness. His feet barely scraped the ground and he seemed to be hanging from his wrists. James was here. There was no mistaking that voice.

Things were starting to come back to him as his brain woke up. He’d come out to the Royal Oak for the full tour and had blindly accepted when James offered to show him the newly renovated cellar.

A lot of the rest of the day was still a bit fuzzy.

“Ready for the next round?”

He pushed his tongue against the leather bar between his teeth. A bright light filled the room at the flick of a switch, blinding and harsh and Richard squinted against it. He was able to make out James’ silhouetted form and past that a wall of things he’d only ever seen on the internet.


	2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | Kidnapped

Black Stig walked around the small, huddled group of car show presenters. Each man was collared like a dog and chained to each other with heavy metal links. Even if they could manage to run together, stooping to Hammond’s height or holding him up to theirs, there was no way the center post anchoring them to the ground was moving. Maybe twenty years ago when they were all younger and stronger but not now. Not with Jeremy’s bad hip and James’ tremors. 

Shooting in Russia had gone well and they’d been lax on security in the middle of nowhere. Black Stig had survived his death, escaping to the old abandoned Stalin camps that lined the abandoned railway as he fed his hatred and anger. The trio hadn’t seen anyone in days, not sure if the crew were alive or if anyone was searching for them. 

Stig walked around them again, stopping behind Jeremy and pulling his foot back like a footballer even as Jeremy tried to turn away from the unavoidable blow. Stig’s normal soft driving boots had been swapped out for heavy military boots and the steel reinforced toes cracked Jeremy’s ribs. Jeremy crumpled to the ground and dragged James and Richard with him as he fell.

“Pick who dies,” Stig said through his helmet. They’d never heard Black Stig talk before. Ben slipped up on rare occasion. Was it still Perry under there?

“Now Stig,” James tried to rationalize. He’d only had one season with Black Stig and it has been a BBC decision to axe his position. Whatever Stig’s reasons surely death was unreasonable. 

“Pick one,” he said again, going back to his small camping stool and watching as Richard tried to comfort Jeremy. James didn’t like the crack that came from Jeremy’s ribs and didn’t like the way his breathing was suddenly laboured and wheezy.

There was little to do but wedge Jeremy between them and try to keep him warm. They were in no state to fix a broken rib, let alone a punctured lung or anything worse. Andy would find them. James looked at the dried blood on Black Stig’s boots and prayed help came sooner rather than later.


	3. No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

They’d miscalculated. Their run for the Argentinian airport hit a roadblock despite the security advice and it had all been downhill from there. The bodyguards had been overrun by the sheer size of the crowd and as the van door was ripped from its hinges all they could do was try to hang on to each other. The Argentinians were like worker ants, swarming the van and covering it in an angry, violent mob until the suspension groaned.

Richard had been grabbed first, a grubby fist getting a hold of his shirt through a broken window. Their security had broken the man’s arm with a bully club and two new arms reached through the bigger hole in the autoglass and pulled. Richard had been pulled against the door as rocks pelted the stalled vehicle and even as Jeremy and the guards tried to pry him loose the van rocked on its axles.

A rifle barrel was put through one of the rock holes and one of the guards yelled. James and Jeremy were pushed to the floor as the guards worked harder at freeing Richard. 

The gun fired and the seat where James had been sitting was riddled with bullets. The brief light faded immediately, plunging them back into darkness. Jeremy reached over for James and starting reciting a prayer from his childhood. 

_Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed..._

The door gave way and the torchlight highlighted the mob scene. Richard was pulled from the van with a scream and dragged into the crowd. One of their security team took a shot to his hip as Richard’s shoe came off in his hand. Jeremy huddled with James at the far side of the floor, desperately trying to climb under the seats and as far away from the end of a gun as possible. 

He wasn’t good with Spanish as the crowd yelled and screamed. More bullets ripped past them, blowing through metal and glass and barely missing them. Maybe James had been hit, Jeremy hadn’t the time to check.

“Conseguirlos!” someone shouted and the hands landed on Jeremy and pulled, ripping him from James and the guards and out of the van. He could do little, there felt like there were hundreds of people each desperate to get a punch in as he was pushed through the crowd.

“James!” he shouted as he heard a familiar grunt behind him. He couldn’t see anything but fire and filthy clothes, dirt and skin and the reflected light in the blade of a knife. He tripped over something or was knocked down and he was falling, landing in the dirt and rocks. Richard was near him, face down in the dirt and covered in blood. James landed next to him, pushed to his knees with a gun between his shoulderblades. The makeshift torches shifted around them and Jeremy saw just how screwed they were with a little bit of light.


	4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

The overnight stop in Cambodia was spectacularly terrible. It would be a miserable night but it would look great on camera. James complained, as always, and even Richard looked at the poor accommodation with doubt. It was filthy, and likely used for housing livestock above the small mechanics shop below. They filmed a bit and expressed their misery to the cameras before wrapping up for the night and bedding down. The crew got dibs on the Land Rover, a few of the more adventurous travelers hanging small hammocks or opting to bed on groundrolls. At least they rated shelter over their heads and dipped into James’ small stash of chocolates before trying to get some sleep.

Jeremy woke to the floor beneath him shifting sideways. He was confused at first, normally things only shifted like that when he’d had a few too many drinks. Something heavy creaked ominously and he sat up, watching as a giant crack spidered the length of the wall in front of him. He was sliding to the side as the earthquake rumbled the building, splitting concrete and steel and knocking the building from its foundation. 

Richard tumbled into him as they slid into James and fell.

The next thirty seconds were of chaos. The lights went and dust covered everything. They rode the building down, futilely covering their heads with arms as the upper floors and roof pancaked around them. Jeremy kept curled up in his tight little ball even after the bumps stopped and the earthquake ended. In the deafening silence he listened for anything and slowly pulled his arms away, inches from concrete and choking on heavy dust.

He seemed fine. Legs and arms and everything still attached. His phone was still in his pocket and he was able to turn the flashlight on despite the broken screen. It wasn’t much to look at; gray concrete and random debris. There wasn’t much room in his little protective cage, trapped by the walls as they’d fallen in. “James?” he called and coughed on the dust. “Richard?”

“I’m alright,” Richard was quick to answer even as his voice was muffled. “I think I’m ok.” Wherever he had rolled to he was good for a while.

Jeremy coughed again and tried to pull his undershirt up and over his mouth and nose to keep the dust out. “James!” He’d been right against Jeremy as the floor tilted, his familiar presence replaced with debris. 

Sirens started far away as the residents started to wake up to their nightmare. “Jeremy.” His voice was weak and pained and Jeremy immediately started trying to get to him. There was a grunt and a groan of pain that helped Jeremy try and pinpoint his location. He seemed to be down further than either himself or Richard. “My leg...”

He could hear Richard scuttling around and digging out as he was stuck in his small concrete box. “I’m coming, James.” Things were shifting around them as Richard dug. The whole building was unsafe, ready to collapse again and crush them all. 

“We’re here, James. We’re going to get you.” Jeremy pushed against the solid rock. I didn’t budge. He was stuck. He used his light to scan around him and panicking when he couldn’t find any escape.

“My leg’s stuck.” The dust dried in Jeremy’s mouth. It had to be bad and Jeremy imagined far too much.

“Richard’s coming, just hang on.” James coughed again and pebbles rained down on Jeremy from above. The stack they were balanced on shifted again and Jeremy’s phone was crushed under rock, leaving more kicked up dust to settle in darkness.


	5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue

James had been tempted by the perry. He’d taken a liking to it while touring the area with Oz Clarke and now, lost and driving back from Hammonds he’d found a small farm with a sign out front. It was worth a look around as little, if any, perry made it back to London.

It looked like a normal farm, outbuildings and barns around a small central square much like a small town. He knocked on the door to the house and smiled at the man who answered the door. “Hi, I’m James. The sign out front says you have perry.”

“Yaep,” he drawled, wiping his hands on his jean. “Out to the shed.” He nodded at one of the outbuildings. “Lemme show yeh.”

The barn door slid open enough to allow a human to pass through. It was dark inside the shed and James tried to peek into the darkness and look for any sort of still or fermenting tanks. 

“Back in the corner where it’s cooler.” James was pulling out his Iphone to act as a lamp when something hit him and everything went dark.

**********

He’d been here long enough that the smell no longer bothered him and his clothes were starting to get loose. It wasn’t anything complicated, just a barn and some old iron chains attaching him to a stone wall. His phone was long gone but someone had to be looking for him. Surely Sarah when he didn’t make it back or Richard shortly thereafter. Given his problems with direction maybe they have him an extra day to turn up. That had to be... he had tried to make a rudimentary count with bits of straw... almost two weeks. A gust of wind through the barn doors had blown away his count and he was no longer sure what day it was. Not that it mattered much.

Using his endless time and the straw he’d managed to strip out most of the bolts holding him to the wall. He waited, learning his captor’s patterns and habits until he had a clear shot at escape. James still didn’t know what they were holding him for. Surely if it had been ransom he’d be on video or have photos taken. They didn’t beat him or do anything strange to his bottom, so even if it was porridge twice a day he could wait for an opportune time.

He figured dusk today. They were country folk and seemed to be more active in the morning as they tended to their farm and whatever else they did here. James carefully blew away the gray rocky dust and stuffed the holes with hay to keep the bolts in place while he was fed and watered. 

Not sure which way to run, he remembered the driveway had been to the left but he wasn’t sure if that was East or West. It hardly mattered, as long as he could get out and anywhere else. He ate his evening gruel and made like he was bedding down, counting in his head the minutes until he felt it safe to run. The light was fading through the cracks in the barn door. He’d be less noticeable in the dusk. Even a rough night in the woods was better than being held.

 _‘Now’_ his brain urged him. Unable to take the cuff from his leg he looped the chain over his shoulder and carefully pulled it from the wall. Free beyond his little semi-circle, he stood on coltish legs and peeked outside, making sure his coast was clear. His memory served, car park on the left and more outbuildings to the right. He hustled as quickly as he could as the cumbersome chain jangled and weighed him down. The poor diet and weeks of restraint left him fatigued. Out of shape before he was kidnapped, he wouldn’t be able to get as far as he wanted before the sun set completely.

James limped past broken down agricultural machines and junk as he made a break for the main road. As long as he could get on the road, hide just behind the line of trees, he could flag down a motorist in the morning and escape. Walking was a bigger issue than he’d planned on as his lungs burned and legs shook from sudden use. 

“Oi! Where do you think you’re going?” He heard the crack of a shotgun and froze. The man who brought out his morning food pointed the gun at him while the younger one cut through the tall grass. 

“Just let me go,” he pleaded. “Whatever you want, I’ll pay you.”

He was an old man, being chased by someone in their prime and another with a gun. His wrists were zip tied together before he was frog marched back to the barn and left to hang on what looked like some sort of bovine butchery hook. The tie cut into his wrists and he could feel skin tear and blood run down, wondering if his hands would come off before he could run. The captors were smarter this time, elevating the hook and bending him in half, able to stand upright or get himself off of the hook.

“I have money. I’ll pay you.”

They ignored him as his ankles were tied. He didn’t have even the straw to keep him warm tonight. He’d read about this before, not able to breathe correctly it eventually caused a type of pneumonia and you’d drown to death in a few hellacious days.

Hours of jumping and twisting did him no good and only sliced the ties deeper into his wrists. He soiled himself and the cold, wet trousers stuck to his leg. Sleep never came and he missed his morning bowl of porridge. It hadn’t been much but it had been calories. He’d have to think seriously about water soon. He had enough body fat to survive a few weeks, but without water it wouldn’t be long.

Strange noises happened outside that afternoon. Usually it was quiet save for some wildlife and occasional footsteps. Today there were vehicles. Comm chatter and noise. Maybe this was the end, or whomever they were moving him onto had come to collect. He coughed, a weak, rattly noise of impending illness. It was enough to draw someone’s attention and light flooded the barn.

“Sir!” they called and a heard of footsteps came his way. He used the last of his strength to look up, seeing Jeremy’s giant frame with the smaller policemen.

“Hello cockface,” he said before coughing again and slumping against his restraints.


	6. PLEASE….

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”

Richard had viewed it as a compromise at first. He and James had carried on their... affair, for lack of a better word, for years. They had ridden out some of James’ specific kinks as everyone around them turned blind eyes. Mindy had declined their offer of a three way. Sarah hadn’t. They’d not worked up the courage to ask Jeremy yet although Richard was pretty sure that was somewhere along James’ carefully curated list. 

That’s why Richard was were he was now. James had been after him since they started fucking, maybe even before then. But Richard had been wary. He wasn’t naturally inclined to have anything up his bum, much less another man’s cock. Naked and on the bed wasn’t an unusual position, but on his knees with his arse in the air was new. And new was scary. 

James had promised it wouldn’t hurt and Richard trusted him implicitly. The small plug looked tiny next to some of James’ other toys and Richard had watched him take the dildos and vibrators without problem. James was experienced whereas Richard was treading new ground. Richard looked over at the small toy sitting almost innocently on the bedside table as James worked with his lotions and potions

“Hammond,” James snapped. Richard pulled his eyes away from the plug guiltily. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but stop thinking.”

Richard nodded and went back to staring at the headboard, patiently waiting his fate. James sighed but carried on with his preparations. Deep, steady breaths helped. It wouldn’t even be James inside him, just the plug. The thought had gotten him through the last few days, but now he wasn’t so sure the plug would be any better than James’ cock.

He heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper as James carefully covered the plug and spread the lube on the outside. Richard grabbed for the pillow and pulled it to his elbows, hiding his forearms underneath it.

“Are you ready?” Prep time was done and James was standing next to the bed. He’d compromised as well, giving into Richard’s requests in an odd sort of bartering system. “I’d still recommend letting me stretch you a bit first with my fingers.”

Richard shook his head. That was gay. Fingers plus bum equaled gay. Somehow the years of blowjobs and fucking James wasn’t gay, but a finger up his bottom was gay. James’ arse was ok in his books but his own bottom was exit only.

Up until now. He still wasn’t sure how James had actually talked him into it.

“Just do it.” He was impatient. The longer he was on his knees the worse his anxiety became. If James would just get on with it, get his jollies and maybe a few pictures, they could go back to their normal activities.

He could feel James frown even without looking at him. “What’s your safeword?”

They’d been over this. His safeword hadn’t changed since they’d started. “Panda,” he spat out. The Panda was long gone but the joke was still there between them.

James climbed on the bed and wasted more time fussing with something, likely his own dick. Richard stared at the headboard again, trying to clear his mind and calm his nerves, telling himself he wanted this. The tip pressed against him without warning. The lube was cold and James made no move to be gentle or go easy. There was pressure and the squirming feeling of being watched closely as Richard set his knees and got ready for the worst.

James pushed and the plug forced its way inside him. “Get it Out!” he screamed when he could find his breath. It was so much worse than he’d imagined. His eyes watered. “No more!” His sphincter stretched over the increasing flare, burning as it was forced into an unnatural act. “Stop!”

His words held little sway with James. Unless he said his safeword everything said between them was just for play. Every cruel thing he’d said and every word of love from James’ lips were lies. That was the good thing about being with a psychopath. Everything was a lie.

James pushed the plug in further, purposely causing Richard pain. It was worse than the paddle or the flogger - those mearly bit into his skin. Nails dug into his hips as James kept pushing. He was too slow to pass out and too fast to adjust, hurting Richard and enjoying every minute of it.

“Fucker,” Richard cursed as it felt like he was being ripped in two. He had no idea why James liked the feeling enough to beg for it.

“Almost in, just the worst bit to go.” The biggest part of the flare was still outside him. He would tear and bleed even as James laughed and left him on the bed. And this was the small plug. “Safe word?”

Richard bit his lip. He wouldn’t say it and wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t get James off that easily. The blood would do it and James would come onto his torn flesh with the toy buried deep inside of him or pulled out completely and leaving him gaping open. Richard hoped he didn’t bleed too much.


	7. I’VE GOT YOU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

Jeremy had gotten on his flight and was already getting situated in first class before he looked across the aisle. Piers Morgan was giving him the glare, apparently both needing to be in Los Angeles at the same time via the same BA flight.

“Piers,” he nodded through the still loading plane. The punch up had been years ago. As long as Piers kept to his side and Jeremy stayed on his side, there shouldn’t be any problems.

“Clarkson,” he greeted back. It was a pissing match and much too easy for someone to snap a photo with a phone these days. Best ignore each other on the long flight and pretend the other didn’t exist. It would be adult thing to do.

Life liked to beat up on Jeremy and the plane had engine problems shortly after takeoff. Everyone strapped in an prepared to turn around back for London, limping on three engines. The explosion was unexpected and tore a hole over the wing. It was a blur from there with smoke and noise. Jeremy clenched on to the armrests of his seat and struggled to breathe as they fell. The clouds parted and Jeremy saw trees that suddenly became huge at what looked like 300 kilometers an hour. James’ voice sounded in his head, quoting the terminal velocity formula, the square room of two times mass times gravity divided by... Even in Jeremy’s head James turned into whistling air. Well, this was it, he thought. What a way to go out.

The first tall trees brushed the underside of the plane until one caught her and pulled her down. Metal shrieked and humans screamed, rivets and welds ripping apart with the scent of damaged pine trees. Jeremy was pushed into his seatbelt and it cut into his belly as it struggled to hold him to the chair against the rapidly decelerating plane. Without it he would have hit the bulkhead, instantly killed and turned into a pancake.

He jerked back when the plane lurched to a halt. Luggage was everywhere. The cockpit had separated, and most of the back of the plane was no where to be seen. He sat, breathing, before it struck him that he was alive. Bruised, battered, shaken, but alive. Piers was slumped over in his seat. His window was broken but his seatbelt had held. Jeremy unbuckled himself and went to him, first checking for signs of life. His heart was beating and he was breathing. Jeremy knew only the basics of first aid. They had to get out of the plane. Didn’t they catch fire when they landed? Where was James when he needed them. Piers might have a neck of spine injury, but the risk was too great to leave him. He unbuckled and carried him through the wreckage. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug. Piers had bulked up in the last decade or so and become quite fat. Jeremy ignored it and found a safe looking spot a few meters from the section of plane. The forest looked horrible with a big swathe cut where the plane came down. Wherever they were, surely they’d be out soon to get them. Planes just didn’t disappear over Britain. 

There was a deep looking wound on Piers’ leg. Jeremy didn’t like the man, but no one deserved to bleed to death. He used Piers’ ties as a tourniquet. It didn’t stop the bleeding but it slowed enough that Jeremy noticed. Piers was still out of it, so Jeremy left him and went looking for more survivors.

He came back ten minutes later with a few bits of carry on and a lot of trauma that would need working out in ensuing years. His own phone had been in his pocket during the crash and was broken by the seatbelt. Jeremy patted Piers down, finding his phone and holding up his finger to unlock it. There was no signal. Wherever they were it was rural. From the trees Jeremy was guessing north of Liverpool or maybe even near Dublin. They’d be found, he just had to be smart and hang in there. 

He found a sweater in the carry on and draped it over Piers’ body. Another run to the wreckage yielded another carry on and a University of Ulster sweater. It would work. He sat near Piers against a pine tree and kept watching as more and more blood seeped out from his leg. The phone never got any signal, not even as the sun rose higher in the sky.


	8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t Say Goodbye” | Abandoned | Isolation

Jeremy logged off his last Zoom meeting with Andy and Lucy, tossing his glasses on his desk and rubbing at his eyes. Lockdown was not going well. He didn’t have a family like Richard to keep him sane and he wasn’t a preexisting hermit like James. It gave him a chuckle to think that James probably didn’t notice any change to his day while the country was on lockdown. Get up, have some tea, fiddle with whatever bit of naff had his attention, play with the cats and watch telly before falling asleep alone on the sofa. 

James had been uniquely suited for a life in quarantine. Jeremy... not so much. And he knew it. He lasted about an hour before he pulled out his mobile, putzing around his Holland Park flat with nothing to do.

“May,” he said, launching into a monologue about some odd merchandising issue that James was not involved in. Jeremy paced his flat as he talked, mind lost somewhere between his aimless footsteps and his mindless chatter. James said little - no surprise as Jeremy wouldn’t let him get a word in.

He ground to a halt when he felt like he was repeating himself. “You do realize that was the third time you complained about the accountant listing the capital expenses as an amoritization.”

“Is it?” Jeremy winced. “It bothers me.”

James made a noise and Jeremy could hear him take a sip of something. “Is it anything important? I have guests to attend to.”

Guests? You weren’t allowed to have guests these days. “No, I just got off from Zoom with Andy.” And he was lonely. It had been some of the hardest weeks of his life waiting for phone calls from Andy’s family as he was sick and making endless journeys between his farm and London as everything stopped.

“You’ll want to call him back to talk about the finances. Not me.” There was noise in the background of James’ call. Other people, living real people were with James and it wasn’t fair. “I need to go.” They hung up after quick goodbyes and Jeremy reached for a bottle of wine. He slumped on the sofa and drank straight from the bottle, wondering who was visiting James and what kinds of things they were doing. Even if it was one of James’ motorcycle or ballet friends Jeremy could smile and find something to chat about. 

Alcohol helped make the decision to walk to James’. It would give him some (admittedly) needed exercise and some new things to look at. It wasn’t far to get through Shepherd’s Bush and into Hammersmith and he had nothing else to do today but drink. James was good at drinking.

It almost felt normal to lock up his place and head out down the street. It was oddly quiet and the birds were singing. What he didn’t hear were any cars. The ‘thrum’ that made up the background noise of city life had all but disappeared. No one was on the roads. No one was walking to the shops or home from work. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Rod Serling leaning against the wall. Instead it was a squirrel, no longer wary of humans even after a few short weeks. “Go ‘way,” Jeremy shoo’ed him.

He looked around, ignoring his squirrel companion. It was a warm spring day, surely mothers would be out with babies or tending to their gardens, but there was nothing. Windows were shut and draperies were pulled, cars sitting unused at kerbs and wherever a space was available. It looked abandoned, like the one where the man finally had time to read all of his books. Jeremy shrugged it off. Paranoia from the drink. Lockdown had been hard. One foot in front of the other, there you go. 

The emptiness continued for blocks at a time. He crossed empty main roads and abandoned side streets all the same. Even the busses seemed to have stopped running, and he could see the blasted things for miles away usually.

Even Hammersmith was quiet. He’d never seen the high street like this, not on Christmas morning nor 7/7. James house still stood, no IRA bomb or leftover war ordinance taking it out during his walk. Ever old fashioned, he had to knock on James’ door. The Ring doorbell he’d been gifted probably still in the box underneath a newspaper and forgotten about. 

No one answered. No cat poked its head through the curtains and no one yelled telling him to sod off. He knocked again, surely James was just smoking his pipe somewhere and deaf to the world. It dragged on too long again and Jeremy tried to phone him. Straight to voicemail he went and it really confused him. James had just been there. It hadn’t taken him that long to walk down. There was a loose brick near the garden wall and Jeremy picked it up. If he broke a window, he could get into the house. It would be nothing to replace it should he be wrong. Everything was wrong. London wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He weighed the brick before tossing it through, feeling the coarseness of it against his palm. The door’s lock flipped and James stuck his head out. It was the first person Jeremy had seen in a week and he nearly cried, dropping the brick.

“You’re not supposed to be out.” James stuck his head out a bit further, scanning the empty street.

“Why are you in a bathrobe?” His hair was dry. Maybe he had been getting ready for a bath. It would explain both the delay in answering the door and being away from his phone. 

James looked at him sharply. “I have... guests.”

Guests. In the afternoon. In a robe. Jeremy furrowed his brow. He was desperate for some company, even James’ weird friends.

James set his jaw and let the front of his robe drop, revealing a mesh and PVC shirt underneath. “I have guests,” he reiterated.

Jeremy nodded. He was desperate for friends.


	9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice

Ireland. You’d figure they’d be safe in Belfast. Safe from IRA activity twenty years after Good Friday. 

Not safe from James’ lack of direction. 

He’d lost the camera car somehow, and as the first in line gotten the three of them off the roads they had permits to film on. They were supposed to head towards County Armagh and hadn’t made it out of Southern Belfast. 

“James, have you gotten us lost again?”

Jeremy could see James’ head swiveling around as he drove randomly, looking for the lead car. “Just a scenic detour.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes and let the walkie talkie fall out of the camera frame. 

The line crackled as Hammond chimed in. “We’re not even out of the city yet.”

“No, no,” James argued. It would make for a good running joke. “It’s a left up here.”

The road they were on ended at the brick wall of a factory. There weren’t any signs with arrows telling them which way to go. “Are you sure, James?” He was looking both ways as they waited at the light and it wasn’t making Jeremy feel confident.

“Can we not let him be after the camera car next time?” Hammond was stuck at the back, trailing along with whatever choices James made. 

“If in doubt, go left.” James put his blinker on the wrong way and turned right when he got the green. Jeremy watched him drive off in astonishment.

“Last time he did that he tried to drive into a country where we couldn’t film,” Jeremy explained to the camera. The light was green and he wasn’t going to follow until James gave the all clear.

“Why doesn’t he just use his GPS?” Richard was behind him, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

Jeremy thought of a joke. “They’ve not come out with the sundial version yet.” He could see Richard chuckling in the rear view mirror. “How long do you reckon before he turns around?”

“He’ll fail at that and never make it back. Can we do last rites now and move on?” Jeremy chuckled. Their banter always filled in little spots during editing. 

“Jezza,” James butted in. “Come see this, it looks straight out of 1976.”

He sat up in his seat. Northern Ireland in the ‘70’s wasn’t always a good thing. “James, don’t get into any Troubles.”

“This looks like history.”

They knew James too well. Whatever was down there probably wasn’t something they should be poking their cameras into. “James,” Jeremy called on the radio. “James...” 

“You think he got out of the car?” Richard was having the same thoughts he was.

“Ayep,” Jeremy agreed, giving James a few minutes to get back to his car when he was finished looking at whatever shot up old ruins caught his attention.

“Wasn’t he wearing his orange sweater?” Richard’s voice was hesitant, like he didn’t want to have to be making the connection.

“Shit,” Jeremy cursed. It was another major fuck up, possibly on the scale of Argentina. “That’s a massive Oh Cock.” He borrowed James’ line for the sake of the film. “Let’s go get him before the Paraders do.”

They drove carefully down the small lanes of the city. James’ hadn’t been away for that long and he couldn’t have gotten too far.

Jeremy slammed on his brakes after the next intersection. Richard almost rammed his bumper at the sudden stop. “That’s not good.”

A crowd was around James’ car. They were still far enough back that they might not be seen. They had to watch as James was encouraged to get out of his car by a rather large knife. The crowd pushed him around and roughed him up. Things went from not good to seriously shit when one of the militants caught sight of the two idling cars. “Not good.” He hung up the radio as James was put into an armlock and a small cadre of the flock came their way.

“Jeremy, drive.” Richard was backing up, ready to run and leave James behind. It wasn’t some stupid breakdown or a scary looking bridge. They’d hit the shit for real this time.

“I can’t leave him,” Jeremy said, forgetting the radio wasn’t in his hand. “We don’t always leave a man behind.”

“Jeremy!” Richard screamed into the radio as he watched Jeremy turn off his car and get out. “What are you doing?!”

He wasn’t going to leave James alone with them and put himself in harms way without thinking. He offered no resistance as he was grabbed and dragged towards the crowd. Richard slammed his foot on the gas and hightailed it out of there, flying down the narrow streets and reaching for his cell phone in the glovebox. 

The militants stared at the pair of presenters. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to make a statement, like getting Lord Mountbatten or the Miami Showband. James had a knife to his throat and a line of blood was already trickling down from a slice. Jeremy knew they weren’t getting out alive. James hadn’t said a thing, but from the terrified look in his eyes he knew it as well. 

“I’ll make you a deal.” They were going to make his life count for their agenda and Jeremy was going to make his life count on his own terms. “Let James go. I’m the star with the name that will get you the publicity you want.”

The one Jeremy figured was the leader conferred with another man beside him as James stood stoically. He wasn’t above begging and pleading when the time called for it.

The leader nodded and James was pushed away from the bruiser as the knife made another shallow pass over his skin. James stumbled at the push, reaching up to feel the cut. James looked at him and Jeremy kept his chin up. “Run,” was all he could say. 

James stared into his soul before breaking off in a lumbering run.


	10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

James sat himself on his knees and reached a hand underneath to hold the toy in place. It had taken a long time for it to be shipped from America and he couldn’t wait to get his new Bad Dragon broken in.

It would be a stretch, but the huge work of silicone would fill him completely. He’d coated everything in lube and set his phone up on the dresser to catch the action. With quaking thighs he lowered himself onto the dildo and let it spread him apart, using gravity to sink himself further down along its length. 

But fuck,it felt good and he moaned as he impaled himself. He’d had ones almost this size, but in his rush for pleasure he’d skipped over a lot of the prep work. The silicone warmed quickly and James hurried to get it all inside him. 

Sharp pain shot across his back and he froze. I was probably just gas moving. He’d had that before and while unnerving it wasn’t unexpected when dealing with that entryway. It settled quickly and he spread his knees further, yelping as the pain came back even stronger. He knew he’d rushed the bowel prep and hadn’t wanted to spend the afternoon in the bog for a few hours of pleasure. He could just angle differently, push against the blockage gently until it moved back. A few inches wouldn’t make much difference in the ultimate outcome. 

James yelped when he felt something give way inside him. The pain burned now, his new toy turning into a giant hot poker up his arse. Removing it didn’t help. The silicone burned all the way out despite the fact that he’d drenched it in lube. He lifted his hips as he pulled the toy out, a new blinding wave of pain shooting across his belly. The dildo made a popping noise when he pulled it out. He let it drop on the duvet. Everything was washable. His hand felt oddly sticky and he brought it up to look at.

Cock.

That was a major oh cock.

His hand was covered with a marbled mixture of blood and lube, smeared from his fingers and across his palm. A quick movement to see the extent of the damage almost made him pass out in pain. The bed was already pooled with bright red blood and more dripped from him as he watched in stunned horror. 

He had to get to the bathroom. He had a few things for broken bottoms and bleeding, even if this was a lot more than he was used to. He tried to move his legs and the pain blinded him, crashing him face first into the carpet. The pain was unbearable now, ripping through his belly and setting his innards on fire. Every inch felt like the flames of hell and more blood poured from his bottom as he crawled across the floor to his dresser. The phone was still on the top, mindlessly recording away. James reached up and succeeded in knocking his phone over. He groped blindly at the top as a cold sweat started to break over his skin. 

James struggled to breathe. It felt like he couldn’t suck enough air in. He had to call 999, but he was so tired. Just holding his arm up to reach for the phone was exhausting. He shook his head and tried to remember what he was doing, patting his hand on the dresser for something. It was cold, like someone had shipped him back to the artic suddenly. It was too hard to leave his arm on the dresser, so he let it fall back and collapsed into the carpet.


	11. PSYCH 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defiance | Struggling | Crying

He’d managed to turn the tables and got James when he wasn’t paying attention. The handcuffs locked him to the bed much like he’d kept Richard for hours at a time. He hadn’t minded and enjoyed it at multiple points, but fair was fair and James needed to be shown how much fun submitting could be. 

Anger burned in James’ blue eyes as he squinted under his mop of hair. “S’not so bad,” Richard smiled proudly. He’d get to take James down a peg or two. His ego really had gotten out of control lately. “You’ll enjoy it more if you relax.”

James didn’t relax and pulled at his bindings. Richard knew from experience they wouldn’t give and would only cut into James’ skin. It was his turn now to dig through James’ drawer of supplies and find whatever he wanted to use in retribution. Something simple would likely work best. He eyed a wooden kitchen spoon. James liked to cook. Every time he’d cook in the future he’d think about Richard.

“Fuck you,” James spat and pulled at the handcuffs, making the bed shake. “Let me go.”

He would have chuckled if he’d thought about it. The smirk was enough to make James growl. “No, I don’t think so.” He’d always been on the receiving end of James’ twisted kinks and it felt like he’d won to be able to to stand over James finally. “You’ve got a lot of penance to pay.”

Grabbing the spoon, Richard smacked it into his palm a few times. It would be nice. Not only for the large welts it would leave, but for the lingering psychological effects it would have.

James eyed the spoon and tried to pull away and across the bed. The handcuffs didn’t give him much room to escape, no matter how hard he pulled. Richard made sure he stayed out of the way of kicking legs and eyed the side of James’ hip. There was enough meat there to not seriously injure anything, and yet every time his jeans dug in over the bruises he was going to leave pain would flare. When he broke, Richard could flip him on his belly and mark his bottom until his arm burned and James’ arse was nice and red.

The spoon wouldn’t cut flesh like the crop had. Richard had suffered for days. James would merely be uncomfortable.

James still tried to squirm away, the metal of his handcuffs clanking against the bed frame. “Hammond...” 

That wouldn’t cut it. Either Richard - make it personal between them, or Master. Master, he thought. It had a nice ring to it. He caught James on the side of his hip, watching as the skin paled then filled with blood.

“Fuck, Rich...” James twisted, unable to move any further away with the handcuffs. Richard saw his opportunity and swatted James’ arse, bringing the spoon down as hard as he could. James yelped and jumped, bucking out of the way of the flying spoon. He couldn’t go any further and Richard let his anger guide his arm.

“Richard, stop!” James cried. There were tears on his face, blotchy and red like he’d tried to run a marathon. 

Richard smiled and raised his hand again.


	12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

First the rear differential went in his fancy Volkswagen. Then he lost the back brakes. The road was slowly shaking his car to bits, wheel rims dented and tyres either flat or leaking air. With a clunk a good portion of the exhaust fell off and dragged on the ground behind him until another chunk of missing pavement stripped the piping from the undercarriage. 

The car was still driveable, even if it would never pass another MOT inspection. It hadn’t been worth the thousand quid they’d gotten it for. The rust alone should have made him think twice. But it was a 924 and inherently was better than James’ little Citroen or Jeremy’s Austin. So what if the headlamps never worked and the interior smelled vaguely of maple syrup? What the Austin and Citroen had in road clearance the feisty little Porsche made up for in spirit.

Richard didn’t want to admit it, but he’d named this car Isaiah. 

Isaiah was about to ruin his life.

There was an unavoidable pot hole ahead and Richard fell into it. He heard a very bad snap from under the bonnet. Even with his reduced speeds the axle snapped and bent against a rocky outcropping, sending the sheared end through the floorboards directly into Richard’s leg. The car skidded to a halt on the loose gravel, sending Richard into the steering wheel and further onto the jagged metal. 

Crashed always happened quickly, unless one went rolling down a mountain in flames or had jet engines to power down. There was a crash of noise from the radio as everyone grabbed their handsets. He should have been fine. There was no reason for the snapped axle to pop up like it had. His wrists hurt from hitting the dash and his chest would be imprinted with the Porsche logo for a few weeks. What worried him was the gaping hole in his leg. At least it didn’t hurt he thought, as he saw the yellow fat and red muscle against little chips of bone and metal. 

People were already running towards him, James the first one at the door and prying at the crushed metal. The car had all but collapsed with the rusted frame welds and poor suspension. 

“I’m ok,” he tried to appease James despite the massive amount of blood spurting from what used to be his thigh. He’d had worse, certainly. James stuck his head in before pulling back and yelling to the crew.

“We’re going to get you out Richard.”

“I think I’ve broken my leg.” There was a strange ache settling in now that he knew wasn’t going to be good. 

“Which one have you broken?” James asked as he pulled at seatbelts and tried to unstrap Richard.


	13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

Jeremy thought he was doing a great job. He’d normally leave the welding for James or Richard, but as they were on a time crunch for this challenge he thought he would help. How hard could it be? He’d watched enough, get the gas going and spark it, melt the two metals together and just keep the wire flowing. 

They would be so pleased when they came back from... Jeremy didn’t want to think about what they were doing to each other in the toilets. 

It would make for good telly to film him fucking around and doing his best, which would infuriate James’ perfectionist temperament and make Hammond mad when the end result looked like shite.

He grabbed a welding mask and a pair of gloves lying around and went to work on the car’s body. He could just get the borrowed bits of airplane on there and smile proudly when they came out to look at his work.

He started coughing near the rear fender. It was taking longer than he’d thought but then again so were James and Richard. Maybe one of them had to wait for the Viagra to kick in. A disgusting thought. He also seemed to be warm, but this close to a welder he should be.

The headache walloped him next, crushing his brain in a vise-like grip that had him trying to shut off the welding tip and accidentally scorching the work he’d just done. One of the crew shut off the gas tank and took the wand from him, letting Jeremy pull his mask up and find someplace to sit. He felt like crap. Maybe he was coming down with the flu but he’d never had it sneak up on him this quickly.

“Can I have a water?” he asked after a cough. He felt a bit rattly, almost like the time he’d caught pneumonia. He’d be teased mercilessly if he left now, running to a doctor for a wee bit of a cold. 

It got worse the longer he sat. He was embarrassed, but he’d broken down and asked for the medic. They’d shut down filming for the day, retreating back to the hotel together. James and Richard hadn’t been worried and tried to stay away, fearing they’d be next.

Jeremy napped and felt worse when he woke up. The nausea wouldn’t let him keep down water and he was feeling bad enough to call the medic back again. James and Richard milled around the room uselessly, worried and irritating with their endless pacing.

The medic was brusk and efficient, listening to Jeremy’s lungs and checking his pulse before walking away to use his phone. 

“You alright?” Richard called from over there, away from his cloud of germs.

Jeremy coughed again and James winced. “Likely not.” The coughs picked up and Jeremy felt like he was drowning in his own lungs.

“Mr. Clarkson,” the medic said when he was done with his call. “I’ve called out a doctor to look at you. It’s beyond what I can do.”

“Should he go to hospital?” Richard and James were nervous now. 

The paramedic nodded. That wasn’t good and James and Richard looked at each other. The doctor would get him put straight onto one of the floors, bypassing the overcrowded A&E. 

“I’m fine,” Jeremy wheezed. “Few days in, some antibiotics, and right as rain.” He coughed again before waiving them away. “Go enjoy a few days off.”

“Just don’t get admitted to a luxury yacht again,” James joked. It was the lighthearted sort of teasing banter that kept them all going through the bad times.

Richard reached out and put a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Get well. Call us later, or we’ll send you annoying twitter messages.” He smiled his megawatt smile and the pair of them were off to healthier pastures, likely the local pub for the rest of the evening.

The phone call the next day wasn’t good. Jeremy wasn’t getting better, in fact he was getting worse as the pneumonia filled his lungs. James and Richard headed to the hospital, sitting in the tiny room as Jeremy struggled to speak and kept adjusting his oxygen mask. James quizzed the nurses and everyone else who managed his care. Richard stared forlornly at the medical equipment and dealt with his own memories.

Chemical pneumonia, someone had finally explained to James. Something about welding the zinc coated airplane sections and the fumes it produced. The xray of Jeremy’s lungs looked much worse than the Majorca scan. White patches scattered through the dark image and the doctor pointed at the hazy sections at the bottom. 

The numbers on the machine didn’t lie. 95. 94. The number kept going down the longer James and Richard stayed. Jeremy’s oxygen masked fogged up as he struggled more and more.

“Feel like I’m drowning,” Jeremy got out as an alarm started beeping. His meter said 92 as a nurse bustled in and shooed them out.


	14. IS SOMETHING BURNING?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branding | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

Vietnam hadn’t been a joke. Even in their off season, which was little more than a blip between monsoon rains and intolerable heat, temperature shot up into numbers not understood by British minds. James wondered how the colonists had done it without any air conditioning. He sipped at his Tiger Beer as he sat under an umbrella and waited for the humidity and heat to dissipate in the night air. They’d been in this weather a few days now, sweating out everything they drank and causing hell for the wardrobe department. 

They should have seen it coming when Jeremy finally collapsed. The incessant sun and humidity had been too much, baking them alive and bringing with it muscle cramps, nausea, and a host of other problems. Everyone was cranky and sluggish and it was coming across on the cameras despite some of the cheeky gags they’d written into the script. 

The sun was finally setting, leaving it merely hot and humid. “I’m going to vomit,” Jeremy said as he collapsed in a chair. The motorbikes offered little protection from the elements, and waiting around to be filmed was starting to cause problems. 

Tomorrow they’d have a hotel. They just had to make it one more day and then it would be resort life. Cotton sheets and minisplits in every window. “Something you ate or the heat?”

“I’ve got the flu or something.” It did little to rouse any sympathy in James. They were all battling the same battle. 

“You didn’t get your fat head out of the sun soon enough.” They’d pushed filming. The schedule was already ambitious and they just kept falling further and further behind.

The guides had set up a campfire for cooking, stirring rice and spices in with the local water that was sure to give them all the runs. This wasn’t exactly what James has pictured when he was offered the job of hosting Top Gear for the second time.

“I am actively dying here.” The fact that Jeremy could talk in complete sentences seemed to negate his words. James sipped at his beer and watched the fire as Jeremy moaned and carried on.

The locals skewered all sorts of items on metal rods and put them into the fire. Bits of meat and insects roasted next to vegetables without any pattern. One of the skewers was hook shaped, holding what looked like some sort of fish from falling off into the coals. He watched as food was cooked, the J shape of the specific skewer glowing red in the fire. 

Jeremy was still flopped in his chair. His belly hung out of his shirt and his sweaty armpits were stinking up the entire umbrella. Thank god his shoes were still on. Days of rain and sweat and heat likely turned them into chemical weapons. 

He was moaning. Pathetic, horrible simpering noises of a man who couldn’t deal with his surroundings. James was uncomfortable as well, but no one else was carrying on like Clarkson. 

The skewers were pulled from the fire and discarded in a pile. If Clarkson wanted something to bitch about, James would give it to him. He grabbed the fish skewer and looked at the J shape. J for James. It would serve him right.

Jeremy was still lying on the lounger, oblivious to everyone but himself. It only took a quick thrust of the skewer and the hot metal landed against Jeremy’s leg, burning into skin just above his sock. Jeremy jumped, pulling his leg away from the pain.

“Oops,” James said, smirking. It was bright red and shiny, but Jeremy had a small J blistered into his body. Even in the dark James liked his handiwork.


	15. INTO THE UNKNOWN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possession | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

Richard jerked back to life under his layer of wires and tubes. Immediately he pulled at his ventilator, gagging as he pulled the tube from his throat. Still stunned, James and Jeremy hadn’t been fast enough to stop him. After a month of lying comatose, brain dead the doctors had said, Stig had worked his magic and brought him back. James and Jeremy clung to each other, dropping the ancient herbs and crystals and ritual paraphernalia Stig had decked them out with. They hadn’t believed at first but decided it wouldn’t hurt. Modern medicine and western faith had all failed them. 

Richard pulled at the NHS’ work, blood spurting from ripped out lines as monitors blared around them. “Richard,” Jeremy called, delirious with relief. Hammond was alive. His friend was back. Richard didn’t look over and instead kept unhooking himself from everything. Alarms joined the monitors, every sort of shriek and wail filling the small room. 

They’d have to explain themselves to someone. People just didn’t wake up from brain dead. Richard was hurting himself as the blood from his arms soaked into his hospital gown. Jeremy had to stop him. Even if he was back he wasn’t thinking clearly. Time would take care of it. Whatever therapy he needed, however long, Stig had saved him. Saved them.

Jeremy moved to stop Richard’s grabby hands. The central line was huge and directly into his femoral vein. Ripping it out like the rest of them would not be good. They would need help to remove it safely.

Richard grabbed Jeremy’s hands tightly, strong fingers crushing the bones of Jeremy’s hands. Jeremy looked at Richard, or Richard’s body. It wasn’t Richard in there anymore. Red eyes stared into his with a demonic energy as a hand wrapped around his throat.


	16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

When Mindy divorced him, Richard sunk into a horrible funk. It lasted years, mourning the loss of his family and the life he’d carefully crafted. His friends had been there for him, Supercar Alexandra even tried to take him out a few times with her husband’s permission. It was of little use. Richard just wasn’t interested and the press saw it more of a business meeting than anything romantic in the few rags that had gotten photos of them together. 

James understood depression and circled around Richard, letting him stew but not self destroy. Even James’ patience had its limits. 

Richard hit a new low when Mindy had been spotted with a telecom magnate, hand in hand and stepping out in the London nightlife. James swooped in and stayed with Richard through the worst of it, boosting his ego and trying to get him to reenter the world and find himself again. 

Richard accepted one random day, agreeing to go out with James to one of his clubs and see if anything excited him. James was happy. There would still be a long stretch of healing, but at least the first move had been made and just maybe Richard would see something he liked. Richard’s shy admission that he’d only been to a titty bar once didn’t seem to fit with the confident, self assured man Richard used to be. With chances in red light districts all over the planet, surely Richard had at least watched. 

They set out together, two aging bachelors in for a wild night just like in the movies. James doubted any buxomy young things would be throwing themselves and international espionage seemed far away. Instead it was two sad, old blokes trying to get a handjobs or if they were lucky, maybe a blowjob. James wasn’t above paying for his release. He wasn’t sure about Richard. 

The club was much as they typically were. Some rented warehouse space quickly turned into swingers club. Most of the people seemed younger. Mid thirties seemed to be the average age. Old enough to have a clue what they liked but not old enough to find someone similar and settle down. James led Richard through various clusters of bodies, waiting for him to show some sign in interest in something. 

Richard was interested in the drugs and happily took from the abundance of ecstasy that was floating about. James could watch over him and Richard needed the release of a good high. James failed to watch how many of the pills Richard ate and chased down with beer. 

They paused at a padded sawhorse. It had been glammed up with some wipeable vinyl and restraint points, but had clearly started out life intended for job site use. Richard was already thrumming as the party drugs hit him, bouncing from foot to foot in time with the EDM music blaring through the open space. 

“What’s this one for?” he asked, leaning into James. 

“I’d imagine you lie on it, and then someone disciplines you.”

“Like spanking?” Richard’s eyes lit up as he dragged his attention back to James.

Spanking was about as vanilla as one could get here. “Yes, spanking.” James pictured Richard trussed up and with his bare bottom explosed, waiting for a hand to fall on his rear. “Or flogging, whatever is agreed upon.”

Richard hummed. “Can I try it?”

James didn’t see anyone else in the queue. It was a bit more adventurous than he’d pictured Richard after all the teasing jokes about his own sexuality, but if that’s what he wanted... Richard was already sliding out of his clothes. Nudity was common and no one noticed a naked man, even someone like Richard Hammond, among all the skin and leather and chains.

“Help me?” Richard had gotten his feet hooked in the restraints but the wrist buckles proved impossible to do yourself. James tried not to look at the rounded arse on display or the still muscular thighs straddling the sawhorse. The pale skin of Richard’s back shone in the dim lights, smooth and unblemished and just waiting for a few good marks. 

James worked on securing his hands, tugging on the wrist straps after he’d gotten Richard tied down. He was a beautiful sight. Even just laying there James felt himself start to harden.

Richard lifted his head. “Spank me, James.” He looked at the firm ass prominently on display. He’d looked at it for years, knowing nothing would ever come of it. Richard flexed for him, muscles bunching and relaxing under his gaze. “I’ve had it before,” Richard continued as James kept staring. “Just give it to me.”

James looked up to find Richard staring back at him. “I shouldn’t...” Years he’d been dreaming of this. And here it was, being presented to him and he couldn’t take it. It had to be the drugs. Drugs and loneliness. Richard would never forgive him in the morning.

“I don’t see anyone queuing up to help!” Richard bounced on the table. They were alone, two old fat blokes didn’t draw the crowds like the younger, more nubile pretty things that wandered around. He was right. Richard was giving him a pass. They could deal with tomorrow tomorrow.

“Five, and then we’ll go from there.” Richard had a great arse and James couldn’t wait to get his palm on it. He reached out and touched the long desired flesh, cupping his hand around the warmth and kneading the perfect shape.

“Ten,” Richard begged. “Start with ten.” 

It earned him a spank for insolence, and James watched as the already pale flesh blanched where he’d landed his palm. “Watch your place,” he warned. “That was one.”

Richard all but purred. Three more times James spanked him, letting his hand fall on god’s finest work. “Four,” James said and Richard finally broke. He was squirming all over the vinyl, rutting into the slippery surface beneath him.

“Aaaah! Mindy, please, Mindy, harder, more, Mindy, fuck, yes...”

James held his hand. It was the drugs or he was lost in memory but either way Richard’s hallucination was too much for James to handle.


	17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackmail | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused

The average looking letter came direct to the farm. Without any minders or helpers to sort through his personal mail, Jeremy sat at his desk and slid his replica Excalibur letter opener under the flap.

He opened the letter and gaped at the photo they’d enclosed. _£250,000 quid or the series of them go to the Daily Mail._

Normally he wasn’t the one getting blackmailed. James had been there many times with his interests, and even Hammond had a few hushed up paternity suits that ‘went away’ with enough cash. 

It was new ground for Jeremy. He was part of a very unwanted club now. The invasion of privacy hurt the most. He’d been so careful, so very particular and it looks like someone had still managed to find out. 

Everything was deniable of course. He looked again at the grainy photo. God he was fat. Clearly the photos were photoshopped. That’s what his PR team would say. They’d doctor up the sample photo to undermine anything the rags got, pointing out rookie photoediting mistakes that weren’t there in the copy Jeremy held. The lawyers would say just to pay it out. £250k was small change for this sort of thing. Paying up was often easier than fighting it. 

He wondered why the blackmail was so low. He went back to the envelope - some random address in Leeds. God only knows what some poverty stricken Yorkshiremen had gone through to get said photos. 

Jeremy looked again at the photo. It was him alright. He remembered that night. Of course James would be his alibi. Spent the night at James’. He’d covered for James enough that he felt he was owed one or a dozen.

That was if legal didn’t just pay out. Still, even a payment was no guarantee of silence. Whatever his troll wanted it wasn’t much. Maybe he was old and didn’t know the going rates for blackmail. Maybe his own debts were more reasonable than most. 

Jeremy would have to play the victim of course. Someone trying to slander his name for some quick cash. Of course that wasn’t him, look at the bad photoshop work. Lots of weirdos in the word, huh? No, with James that night. Got drunk on wine and passed out. In no way do I or the Grand Tour team condone this sort of disturbing imagery. He would then flash the edited photo, blurred in all the appropriate places, putting on his best innocent face and selling himself. He could do it if he had to.

His first call should be to the lawyer. Time was ticking although no time frame was indicated in the blackmail letter. Another sign of an inexperienced hack. Jeremy looked at the photo again. Mmmmm... That had been a good time indeed. 

If he took twenty minutes before he called the legal team, no one would be any the wiser.


	18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia

James had many fears. His fear of heights was well known. He didn’t like snakes either. As he got older new fears rose. Fears of his personal life being exposed. Fear of growing older and being alone. Fear that his body would wear out before his mind, and fear that his mind would go before his body. All common things from what he’d surmised. Most of them were intangible. You didn’t actively fear dementia because at best it was an abstract concept to a healthy individual. Heights and snakes were so common they were almost obligatory. 

James wasn’t sure when he started fearing touch. It was a bit Howard Hughesian, exacerbated by the COVID crisis and fear of getting infected after he saw what Andy had gone through. 

Lockdowns had been a blessing. He was happy to isolate, his few excursions to the shops his only in person interactions. Amazon allowed him to have most things dropped at his doorstep. Bleach and sanitizing wipes and sprays and rags started to accumulate in his cupboard. Everything had to get wiped down, from door handles to packages to his bicycle. He realized logically there was little chance of catching anything from a solo bike ride through an abandoned London, but he still wiped down handlebars and pedals all the same. 

The telly didn’t help. First it was spread through contact then through the air. Then it was on everything. Touching an elevator pad could kill you. Italy was dying day by day. France and Germany had swelling pockets of infection.

More reports started coming in from the Health Ministry. Things that increased your risk. James though the warnings described him personally. He’d already been working on the weight, but the breathing issues and blood pressure problems weren’t something he could magically reverse. 

James scrubbed his hands every time he thought about it. Maybe something had blown in through a window, or he’d missed a spot on the last delivery box. Even with red and cracked hands he kept washing. 

The panic attacks started small with just a sense of unease and awareness. He could feel his blood pressure shoot up and knew his thoughts were stuck in a loop. A week later he was having full blown attacks, scrubbing himself raw in the shower and convinced he was covered in COVID virus. He’d barred even Sarah from visiting - convinced that he was so high risk even Sarah’s presence would kill him. Andy had nearly died and according to Jeremy it was just a matter of luck that the NHS had run out of ventilators before he turned the corner. 

When he wasn’t filming something remotely with Lucy and Rachel, he scoured the internet for information. Some of it was crap, he knew better than to think it was related to the 5G mobile phone networks, but maybe the cats could carry it. Maybe the postman had licked his finger before sorting through the day’s mail. And the reports... Healthy, young people dying. Someone his age and in his condition didn’t stand a chance if he caught it. 

The paranoia came with the panic attacks. Was someone snooping around his garden, waiting to cough near a window and infect him? Did the takeway driver have an auntie who lived nearby and wanted to buy his house after he was gone? Or maybe it was just one of the deniers, maskless and proud, infecting everyone around them because they’d not seen anyone close to them get sick from it. 

James washed his hands again. The antibacterial soap burned on his open skin as he scrubbed away the invisible germs he knew where there just beyond what he was capable of seeing.


	19. BROKEN HEARTS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor’s Guilt

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the one who crashed. He was the lucky one as many had told him. Richard didn’t see much luck in it. At least when he had been injured his brain and shielded him from the worst of it. Years passed before he could see the true horror of his Leeds crash. There was nothing to protect him now except Mindy’s handling of the press and paperwork. 

He loathed cars. Absolutely hated them. Hated the spinning wheels and engine blocks and fuel tanks and... Even Oliver, poor little 90 horsepower Oliver was capable of killing someone. Richard turned into a hermit, refusing to be near anything motorized. He walked sometimes or on occasion rode one of Mindy’s horses but he was stuck on his country estate. The girls did the running about, each trip into town sending Richard into near hysterics.

When the shock had worn off, Richard had gone about his house. Their lives had been so intertwined that bits and bobs from James and Jeremy were scattered across his property. Richard found a few boxes and gathered everything up. James had left a change of clothes while Jeremy had sent him a case of rosé. DVD’s, gifts, even Jeremy’s jokey Porsche oven mitts went away. He was numb now and it was best to get this stuff put up before the real pain came. 

Mindy gave him space while he mourned. The girls were busy with their own lives. Losing James and Jeremy had been a blow for all of them, but Richard was by far the worst. Even as the little black and white barn kitten sat in his lap and purred Richard knew he was some relation to Fusker. Maybe it was James in spirit coming to comfort him. He scratched the cat under the chin and let the soft fur glide under his hand. 

It should have been him, he thought. He could have walked away with this miraculous luck or at least have survived. Or his luck would have run out to no one’s shock. It was his time, he was the one who crashed, not safe driving James or expert driver Jeremy. Mindy was strong and could cope with his loss. Lisa was at loose ends and Sarah... Sarah wasn’t fairing well either. Richard had promised to look after her but hadn’t been able to do so since the accident. He was too wrapped up his own grief. 

With time the parish priest said he would heal. It didn’t feel like it. Richard cursed God and Ferrari and Pirelli and everyone else he could point a finger at. It didn’t help anything, but the anger wore him out enough that he could sleep with a few pills. He’d try to heal tomorrow, whatever that entailed. Maybe he’d just end it. It was supposed to have been him anyway and fate had just made a mistake. He’d be setting things right again.


	20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost | Field Medicine | Medieval

Caravans were never a good idea. The fans loved any film involving them, and it all but guaranteed they’d have at least a roof over their heads at night, but there were limits. Caravan conkers had been brilliant, as had been caravan target practice, but actually hauling them around and trying to race their already underpowered cars... At least Jeremy’s fifth wheel had enough power to climb the munro. It was also heavy enough to set stuck in the peaty bogs at the bottom of the mountain. 

They weren’t lost technically. The GPS and satellites still pinged them, but they were a long way from quality roads and the comforts of modernity. Could be worse. They survived the arctic in tents, so the padded beds and stashed blankets were well received. 

There had been a bonfire for the cast and crew, a Top Gear tradition carried over to The Grand Tour. Jeremy had been oddly quiet most of the day. Given his adamant hatred of caravans it had raised a few eyebrows. The dreary weather did little to make the day’s filming enjoyable. Richard was ankle deep in mud and James had been bitten by a million mosquitoes. Jeremy only picked at his supper and passed on the beers that were laid out. 

James nudged Richard as he watched Jeremy rub at his chest again. 

“You reckon he’s alright?” Jeremy tried to smile at a joke, but it fell flat.

“Dunno.” James sipped at his beer. “He might just be tired.”

“S’he look a bit pale to you?”

James grunted. Who knew under the hazy Scottish sun. “Just keep an eye on him.”

James was a keen observer of all things Jeremy. When the campfire broke up and people started wandering away to bed down for the night, James was at Jeremy’s side and trailing behind him to Jeremy’s caravan. Richard peeked around his shoulder from the doorway. Jeremy was sat on the bed, hands on his knees and struggling for breath. No one questioned the three of them in the same caravan anymore.

“You’re not well.” James filled the small space even as Richard fought for room. 

“’M just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

James dropped to a knee and grabbed Jeremy’s wrist, feeling his pulse and counting on his watch. “Jeremy...”

“Just a bit of a bounce.” Jeremy seemed to hold his breath as James kept his hand around Jeremy’s wrist. Sweat prickled on clammy skin and made Jeremy look like he was glistening. “I need to lie down.”

James helped arrange Jeremy on the bed. “Hammond,” he snapped. “Those purple flowers across the way? Get me a handful. And a chunk of bark from that willow tree.” James held his hand out to show Richard the size of the bark he needed. He started the small camp stove and was pulling out a water bottle and a small pan. “Go,” James waived at Richard impatiently.

It was one hell of a time to make tea, but when James was in one of his bossy moods you just did what he said. Usually he was right.


	21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chronic Pain | Hypothermia | Infection

They’d done the North Pole fifteen years ago. As a final Grand Tour farewell Jeremy and Andy had written a massive Antarctic endcap to send them all comfortably off into retirement. 

They were too old to do it anymore. James already hated the cold, the zippers on his layers of special jackets and the way they swooshed around as he moved. He hated Jeremy and being stuck with him inside the truck. He hated the way Richard hoarded his rations and how Jeremy refused to listen to basic logic about weight distribution and torque and tread grip. 

The resulting shock of slipping tyres and ancient rocks knocked James’ already bad back out of alignment. In Africa, he could lay on the hood of his Volvo and stretch himself out. There was nowhere to do that in Antarctica. He’d freeze lying in the snow and space in the truck was precious and limited. 

Each slow kilometer was pure pain as his nerves were caught between vertebrae and ruined disks. Even with Jeremy driving as carefully as possible there was no avoiding it. They were simply too old. Or he was too old. The other two seemed to be fairing better. 

Day three he started a fever despite the weather as the pain centered over his kidneys. “Are you sure it’s just your back?” asked a concerned Richard. When James only retreated further into his pain Richard shared a concerned look with Jeremy. Medics were on standby and a mere radio away. James was too stubborn to call them for a simple back ache. As his fever shot up he paradoxically skinned out of his winter gear, using the windows against his skin to cool his raging fever.

When they’d bedded down for the night James couldn’t get comfortable. The truck was hot and there wasn’t a single position that didn’t hurt his back. Realizing he hadn’t peed in hours, he slipped out of the truck silently in only his shirtsleeves and walked around to the back of the truck. He still didn’t have to wee, but the cold felt good as he sat on the permafrost and let the wind blow across his reddened skin.


	22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poisoned | Drugged | Withdrawal

They were rock stars of a sort. Wealth struggled along after the fame but they were recognized and celebrated, the promoter personally dragging them around Amsterdam before their live show. James had hit the coffee shop when they first got in and would spend their entire time comfortably numbed. Jeremy and Richard made fun of his lazy smile and red eyes while secretly envying his ability to let go and relax. 

They were driven to a bar and shown to posh seats. The waitresses were gorgeous and wore little. Richard smiled and nodded at Jeremy. Even happily married and nearing fifty naked women were always appreciated. They guzzled their drinks as entertainers circulated, letting the crowd look at their wares. 

“This is alright,” Richard leaned into their little circle and grinned. Jeremy waived for another round of drinks and a scantily clad young thing brought them over before draping herself on Jeremy’s lap. 

“How do you like Amsterdam?” she purred, leaning into Jeremy’s hold.

“It’s lovely,” Jeremy said with a wince, “but you’re on my bad hip.”

“You have pain?” The girl who was circling around James looked over at Jeremy, who was struggling to lift the small girl off his lap and deposit her on the arm of the small settee. She left an oblivious James and crouched near Jeremy, pulling a small pill bottle out from between her breasts. “Take one.” She tilted the bottle into his hand and four pills came out. Jeremy swallowed them, her accent making the words almost impossible to decipher. The girl smiled and sat back with James, who was happily baked and not very interested. Richard had a gaggle of girls around him, stroking his goatee and his ego all the same. 

Within an hour Jeremy was flying. He even got up to dance as the drugs started to work through his system, twisting him up to an almost Hammondish level of energy. His movements grew uncoordinated and his feet sluggish, landing him back on the sofa in a lump of ancient bones and young sexworkers. He passed out with a smile on his face, great snoring breaths quickly tapering off to no breaths and blue tinged skin.

Richard had to push the girls out of the way when he hadn’t heard from Jeremy in a while. There was a bit of foamy spittle around his lips and his breaths were so shallow they were almost non-existent.

“What did you give him?” Richard roared, grabbing Jeremy by the shirt and starting to shake him. His head flopped around loosely. “Wake him up!” The girls started to back away when they noticed Jeremy had overdosed. The girl who gave Jeremy the pills was long gone and Richard looked around the room quickly, zeroing in on the first girl that had sat on Jeremy’s lap.

She stuttered, trying to remember her English. “That was Maryum, so... eeeh, Piridolan?”

Richard didn’t know what that was. Jeremy wasn’t waking up. “Call 999.” It would be an embarrassing front page ordeal - Jeremy Clarkson overdose in Amsterdam Brothel - but better to be alive and deal with repercussions. 

“0118 999 88199 9119 725 3,” James cheerfully sang, oblivious to the severity of Jeremy’s condition. 

“James!” Richard yelled as a brunette straddled James’ lap. 

A bouncer came out with something and pushed Richard aside, spraying a medicine up Jeremy’s nose. Within a few seconds Jeremy was coughing and flailing, eyes open.


	23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | Sleep Deprivation

The flying had been too much for James. Already a chronic insomniac, flying over France and the Channel in the small aircraft pulled at his already low energy reserves. By the time they’d gotten to the restaurant he was dead on his feet. They’d set up filming while waiting for him and the last scene shot quickly. Andy had plunked a beer in his hand and James had passed out. James admitted he hadn’t slept for a few days before filming, and even with Richard’s small stash of uppers he’d kept falling asleep while flying.

He might as well have been narcoleptic for the way his conscious would suddenly cut out, sending the plane diving until Richard pulled on the controls.

It had been a long flight for both of them. 

They made fun of James on camera, Jeremy laughing at Richard’s antics. He could have plied James with more speed, but he’d taken a bunch himself to cope with the pressures of filming. The bloke was such an easy target for jokes and seemed to take them all in stride.

When the filming wrapped, they nudged James to wake him. He jumped and his beer fell to the floor, breaking on the tile and sending shards of glass all over.

The few minutes of sleep did little for James. He was quieter than his already usual quiet, ill-tempered and impatient. Richard was interested to see how far he could push James and see what happened to the reserved personality. _Shattered_ had aired a few years back and while fascinating, it hadn’t clicked until he read about the Russian Sleep experiment one late night. He liked the premise of an out of control James, ruled by his primal emotions and base fears, driven to the brink of madness. 

The few days they had between meetings and writing and filming wouldn’t let him experiment much, but a few sleepless night might be enough to have some fun.

James was dozing against a wall when Richard caught up with him. Lights were being packed up and Jeremy had already split back to his London flat. James jerked awake again at Richard’s nudge, blue eyes flying open and blinking quickly before drooping. 

“Can I crash at your place?” Hammersmith was much closer than Richard’s long drive. “Don’t think I can make it back to mine.” James forced his lids open and Richard watched the words trickle through his slowed brain. He answered with a nod and held out his car keys to Richard. 

Richard smiled even as James closed his eyes again. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.


	24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation

It had been James’ idea. The trip to Japan had cracked him in some way. Richard wasn’t sure if it was the barren beauty of the north or the insanity of the central cities, but he’d come back different. 

It wasn’t like it was his first solo show. James had always had his own projects away from them that let him explore his own interests. Richard wondered if something happened, maybe he met someone or had some sort of spiritual crisis. James never did talk much and it was almost impossible to get information out of him unless he was willing to share. Richard settled for companionship and gave James the time to talk if he wanted. Sooner or later there’d be a drunken text or a missent tweet that would open up the conversation.

Richard had been invited to London to look at his new project, some sort of kitchenette installed in their building as a forerunner to a cooking idea he was shopping around. It was all fine with him. James knew what he liked and didn’t like to eat and except for on camera rarely pushed the issue. The garage was James’ typical mess of cars, motorcycles, and bikes all stored together randomly. Off to the side was indeed a small kitchen, barely large enough for one to cook at and another person to film. Richard wasn’t sure it made for the best looking set, but it was basic and spartan and almost reeked of James. 

All seemed to go well in what he called the bunker, cans of beans and loves of bread on the rack with Lurpak and cheese in the small refrigerator. At least it all looked largely edible, but the blank walls and lack of sound treatment would make for a dreadful filming location. 

Bored of James muttering on about the war and salad creme, Richard leaned against the door way and perused his collections, eyeing the Tesla and how it connected up to the mains.

Off to the side was what looked like a large water tank. If it was galvanized Richard would have assumed it was for horses, much like the one he had at home. This looked fancy though, with a cover and padding around the rim. Maybe it was a hot tub?

“James,” he asked, as James was fiddling with the toaster oven. “Why do you have a horse trough?” James scrunched his face and looked at Richard like he was crazy. “That oval thing looks like a tank. Well, a water tank, not a Matilda.”

James stared at him before seeming to come to a decision. He turned off the toaster and stuck the salad creme back in the icebox. Without a word James walked past him and towards the tank, flipping a few switches on the side before grabbing the thick lid and hauling it open.

Richard held back but was curious. He wasn’t sure if it was going to be a dipping tank for coating car parts or an at home compost bin. It was lighted from the inside and Richard stepped closer. It was filled with water, and the jets were making small bubbles in the blue depths. 

“It’s a hot tub.” Richard hadn’t pictured James as a hot tub type of guy, but with the chronically bad back, maybe he was.

“It’s better.” James sank his hand into the water and swirled it around. “It’s an isolation tank.” Richard blinked. “Like Tommy, but less pinball.”

He didn’t catch the reference, not interested in any music that came out before he was born. James sighed.

“Therapeutic sensory deprivation.” James shook his head and muttered something about Uncle Ernie. “You can go into your little box of nothing and stay there for hours.”

Richard did know about the nothing box. It was one of his favourite places to be. “Oh, Mindy says I do that all the time.” He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing to admit to after the words had already come out. Oh well, it was just James.

James sneered and shut the lid, turning off the switches. The pumps stopped humming and the ambient noise level dropped back to something suitable for recording.

“You can just show me it and then turn it off!” Curiosity would always be his downfall and now that he was interested it would be hard to let go of the idea.

“I can,” James snapped, probably never envisioning having to share his tank.

“James, c’mon,” he whined. “Just for a little bit. I’ve never been in one.”

James looked at him again, measuring him. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“I might.” Richard was determined to try it now. James must have sensed it and relented, rummaging through a cupboard for a threadbare towel that he draped over a motorcycle seat.

James was back to staring. “Well?”

“Well what?” Richard swung his arms and clapped his hands together. “Lets go.”

“Clothes, Hammond. Off.” Well, he was getting in a tank of water. Not like soaking in wet clothes was relaxing.

“Right.” Richard looked around quickly before striping down. He climbed into the tank and stood in the waist deep water. It was warm and buoyant, already relaxing him and he hadn’t even started floating yet.

James had some more things in a small bag that he was digging through. “Turn around,” he said gruffly, holding out what looked like a sleep mask. When Richard was facing away, James dropped the blindfold over his eyes. “When you lie down, you want to just float. Don’t speak, don’t think, nothing. Just go back to the nothing anytime some thoughts come up.”

Richard nodded and used his hands to feel the surface of the water. He dipped lower until he was able to lean back and float. It was alright, this. Nothing to do but relax into the warm water as the bubbles tickled across his skin.

James lowered the lid of the tank and turned the lights off. Richard floated happily and enjoyed the little break from his hectic life. James hooked the padlock through the hasp and turned the temperature up to full before he left.


	25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears

The Lexus spun out on the gravel despite the traction control system and all the modern computers and technology loaded into it. Machines were still no match for men and testosterone, and as Jeremy came to rest in a small ditch and tried to get the world to stop spinning. He didn’t know how many times he’d gone around, but it was more than once. Dirt and mud caked the cracked front windshield and he had to look down to make sure he was still strapped in.

Everything was a bit blurry and his ears were ringing. The motor was still going. It would catch fire if he didn’t get the engine off. Jeremy reached out but couldn’t grab the keys. If it was a newer car he’d be in real trouble, but the old LFA still had an actual ignition switch and grinded keys. He blinked the dirt and blood out of his eyes and finally managed to catch his fingers on the fob. At least the engine was off now. God only knows where his mobile phone had flown to. Best thing to do now was get himself out and see how far he’d rolled into the field. If he was lucky it wouldn’t be too far. Surely someone would drive by and see his crash and call for help. _Wasn’t this the same field that Rick Allen had driven into,_ he thought morosely. What a front pager it would be. 

At least he got to keep both of his arms.


	26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Migraine | Concussion | Blindness

They quietly let the world know about Richard’s changes after the crash. He’d gotten headaches after the first crash but they went away in time. They came back after the third crash, and doubled after the fourth. There was only so much trauma a brain could endure. His personality leveled out after a few months but left him even more impulsive and quick tempered than he had been before. Frontal cortex injury, the doctors had said. Similar to a lobotomy and they weren’t sure if he’d ever go back to his previous self. Age was no longer on his side, and the swelling post crash made this recovery more difficult than the rest. 

The front of his brain had slammed against his skull on impact, but where the real, unspoken damage was had been at the back. The sudden impact rocketed his brain into the back of his skull, the contrecoup force sheering precious neurons apart. 

They joked about his on-and-off again liking of celery to cover up the deeper worries. The headaches weren’t going away. His balance was still off months later, and worst of all his eye sight wasn’t improving. His eyes were fine, it was his brain that was not allowing him to see. It was also the hardest part to cover up for the press. Richard still hadn’t learned to compensate well, where to look when people talked to him or when he was in a crowd. Driving was out. Most assumed after four crashes he’d had his license revoked and they ran with the idea. It was far better than reality.

They turned it into a joke, trying to hand Richard keys only to yank them away at the last minute. Usually he was a good sport,remembering it was just scripted banter but sometimes he would forget. A few times Jeremy ended up arse over kettle as Richard ran him down and beat him with his fists. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Richard admitted one night around the slowly dying campfire. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” He struggled to bring the beer bottle to his lips waiving it near his chin before jerkily pulling it higher.

James had been on the fence about continuing. He spent more time with Richard and saw how much the repeated crashes were taking away from him. Jeremy’s ever increasing need for more pushed them along, James didn’t want for more and Richard didn’t need more, both of them set up comfortably enough to retire. 

“I think he’s right.” James struggled with his beer as well, the tremors getting worse despite every treatment the doctors could come up with. “We’re starting to get a bit pathetic.”

Jeremy had his issues as well but the Amazon money was hard to turn down. “It won’t work without both of you.” He was glad the crew had all buggered off. No one wanted to hear about their cushy job coming to a sudden, crashing end.

James and Richard both looked at him. It wasn’t new news.

“You want to end it?” He gawked at both of them. It had always just been idle chatter. Drop a cheque in front of them and they were on the plane in the morning. “You want to end it now?”

Jeremy was angry, but the big oaf would get over it eventually. Or not. It mattered little. “Yes,” Richard spoke up. “After we finish filming this one, yes.” James nodded next to him. It had been two against one for a long time and Richard was tired enough to finally force the issue.

“James?”

Jeremy got a glare out of the quiet man. 

“I can’t believe it.” Jeremy ran his fingers through what was let of his hair and started to pace, trying to control himself. “You want to throw away decades of work...”

“Jeremy...” James tried to interrupt but Jeremy was on a rant.

“Everything we’ve built and rebuilt to get here and you just want to throw it away?”

“Jeremy, I’m a blind man on a car show. My brain’s scrambled worse than a rugby player and I’m going to die because of the show.” Richard turned his head, trying to use what was left of his vision to get a fix on Jeremy. “Let me have whatever time is left.”

Jeremy looked back to James. “I’m tired.” He was aging the worst of them thanks to his prolific smoking and drinking. “I’ve not got much left in me.” 

He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to listen to the lies coming from their traitorous mouths. Had he not given them everything? Pulled them from Midlands’ morning radio and failure after failure after failure?

“We go on until *I* say it’s over.” He was the one in control, the brains and the planner and the muscle that kept it all going. He wasn’t going to lose it all because of them.

James scoffed. “You’re sixty five. I’m sixty three. Give it up, man.”

Jeremy had no intention of letting it go. He’d rather see them go out together in a blaze of twisted metal and burning batteries than retired in some care home in Salisbury.


	27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earthquake | Extreme Weather | Power Outage

COVID hit and they had to abandon their plans for Russia. Then Amazon wanted to play games with the Madagascar episode. They had a tight crew and little leaked out, but there were so many people involved with a production that inevitably photos and comments leaked, locals and people not under NDA’s not able to hold their secrets for over a year. Their fans were angry - not at Amazon who had been holding the film for six months. Not at Covid who forced Andy into bed during the last month of editing. They were getting flack personally when the episode was already out of their hands. 

One couldn’t fight the entire internet, so instead a socially-distanced, local script was thrown together. They could record in a week or two, edit it up quickly now that things were starting to open again, and pile the blame straight at the feet of Amazon where it belonged. 

How hard cold it be?

~~~~~~~~~~

Jeremy and Andy threw together a script quickly over Zoom. It wasn’t the most original but it featured old American Cars for the Hammond fans, bickering and jokes for the every day viewers, and they’d set it in Scotland. They wouldn’t have to leave the UK and the scenery would be beautiful. Scotland had always been very good to them.

By September they were ready to film, everyone happy to be getting on with things even if masks and distance still intruded upon things. The cars had been imported and looked good. The old shapes and colours would film wonderfully and look completely out of place on the small, narrow roads they’d scouted out. 

They hadn’t planned for the earthquake. That was a new one by Scottish standards and typical of the way 2020 had been turning out. The ground shifted under them and Richard’s Buick Riviera crashed into the new ravine. 

They could not have written better.

“Have you crashed again, Hammond?” The line of cars had stopped as soon as the hood of Hammond’s car dipped down. It took a minute to figure out why the ground was shaking before alarms started sounding over the few mobile phones left on for filming.

“I have crashed, thank you for noticing.” Jeremy hoped there was good footage. It would be almost impossible to recreate. Assistants cracked to life over the radio and most of it would have to be cut out in post. But Hammond was well, waiting patiently in his car for the hand held camera crews to get out and survey the damage.

“Well if this isn’t typical of 2020.” James was moody suddenly, improvising around the existing script. “What’s next, a volcano? Hurricane?”

Jeremy had to cut in. “Isn’t there one in the Atlantic now, heading this way? Beta or Gamma or something.”

“Don’t say it Jezza,” James warned. 

Jeremy over animated himself and blustered for the cameras in his car. “You said it first!”

The line cracked back into life. “I am alright, thanks for asking.”

“Hammond, yes, how’s your car?” Jeremy was shitting himself with laughter but trying to control it for the film.

“I’ve not hit my head or done my knee in and won’t be needing the air ambulance.” He looked in the mirror and could see Richard all but bouncing in his seat. The longer they ignored him the more comical he became. It would make an excellent film.

They spent a few hours making half-arsed repairs to Hammond’s car, enough to get it back up and running. When it was time to leave the little garage they’d used to fix Hammond’s front end damage they were met with a sleet storm that would make it impossible to film.

“Didn’t anyone think to tell us the weather had gone to shit?” They kept filming as Jeremy got close to the end of his rope.

“We thought you knew. James was out smoking and we thought...”

The poor director. “You thought?” James and Richard were already hovering around Jeremy, waiting to diffuse the situation. 

And then to make it worse, the power cut out. “Fucking ‘ell,” Jeremy cursed. “Gimme a fag,” he nudged James, or where James was a minute ago. James reluctantly gave one to the great oaf thinking that the nicotine would calm him down. Jeremy borrowed his lighter and smoked in the garage, health and safety be damned. 

“How are we going to get to the hotel?” With the weather shit and the cars horrible even in good weather a few miles would certainly take at least one of them out. Without lights and very soon heat, the dual bay garage wouldn’t be welcoming much longer. 

It wouldn’t film well through the sleet, although Andy might be able to turn it into a comedy of them sliding around on ice in their once-overpowered, rear wheel, American cars. 

“I guess we could sleep here.” They eyed the horrific mess outside and weighed the odds. James voted to stay and wait the storm out. The other two wanted to leave. “You know you just signed your death warrants,” James warned. This weather wasn’t safe for man nor beast.

Jeremy straightened up his jacket. “You can sleep in your Cadillac, May, I need a shower and a bed.” They’d driven through worse, hell, boated through worse. How hard could it be?

Their choice had been made. James handed each man a cigarette and watched from under the bay door as they drove out into the sleet. 2020 hadn’t finished with them yet.


	28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidents | Hunting Season | Mugged

Richard had gone for a hunt on his property. They’d always had their share of wildlife, but when the rabbits had gotten out of control and chewed through several cars worth of cables and lines, it was time to thin the heard. He got dressed up in his hunting best and grabbed his shotgun. Surely rabbits wouldn’t be that difficult. Cute, fuzzy little bunnies. The girls had been horrified Willow going as far as turning away and running to her room. Maybe if he got a few Mindy could make a stew. It was a bit too rural for his tastes, but it would be a fitting end for chewing through his cars and bikes. 

Walking through the hills and dales felt good. He’d always felt good outside and with this perfect weather the walking would be good exercise. The life of television and super-commuting was starting to add some weight to his belly. Maybe it was just age. He paused, seeing movement in the far part of the field. Richard was surprised he hadn’t seen it earlier. Maybe it was a deer? It looked fairly good sized but it didn’t move as he got closer. Maybe it was just garbage, someone’s burlap sack blown onto his property. 

Still not sure of what it was, Richard approached with gun raised. 

“Hello Richard,” came from the pile and he watched as a figure slowly turned and stood. It looked like a nutter in a rabbit suit although Richard couldn’t fathom why he would be in a random field in some Donnie Darko cosplay outfit. Richard kept his gun at the ready but pointed it away from the figure.

“Who are you?” he said warily. 

“There are some who call me... Tim.” Richard wasn’t impressed by the joke. “I am many things,” he morphed into a stocky blonde man and then coyote and back to a more local looking man. “You can call me Loki, or Gwydion, or Eshu.”

“Right, Tim.” Richard wasn’t sure what he had just witnessed. Maybe he fell earlier in the mud and hit his head. Rabbits didn’t change into coyotes and men. “Nice to meet you, but I’m in the middle of something and I need to get back.” He moved to step around Tim only to have his path blocked. “D’you want a photo or an autograph?” Richard didn’t have a pen on him.

“No, I want to play.”

This was getting stranger and stranger and Richard felt his head for fresh blood. Getting knocked out was the only thing that would make sense. Although he had weird fan encounters in the past, this was by far the oddest. “I’m not in the mood to play today, Tim.”

The creature smiled, the ghost of his original bunny ears translucent in the autumn light. Despite his firm grip on his shotgun it slipped and pointed at the ground. The barrels swung from foot to foot as Tim moved his finger. “OK, ok, ok,” Richard tried to move his boots out of the way. “What do you want?” 

“I want nothing.” It didn’t give Richard much to negotiate with. “You’re going to have an accident.”

 _’Not if I have any bloody say in it,’_ Richard thought as he kept moving his feet. “I really don’t want an accident. I’ve had my fair share already.”

Tim swirled his finger and the gun drew up level with Richard’s chest. There was nothing holding it there and Richard froze. _This isn’t happening,_ he thought.

“Is it still rabbit hunting season?” Tim asked, holding the gun steady over Richard’s heart. 

“I... I...” Richard stuttered. “No, absolutely not, never a good idea to hunt rabbits and I’ll never do it again.”

The gun swung down to his boots again with a flick of Tim’s wrist. “Little piggy hunting season?”

“No!” Richard jumped and pulled his feet back, just barely missing the spray of pellets as the gun fired. Tim smiled and Richard’s heart was ready to beat out of his chest. The welsh commoner look faded back into the murderous rabbit look, the brown fur full of mud and hay from the field.

The gun swung back up, this time at Richard’s head. “I think long pork might be on the menu tonight.” Richard had enough time for a shock of terror to run through him before Tim flipped his hand again.


	29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

The flight medics had already put a tube down Richard’s throat and hooked him up to a machine. Others worked on medicines and straightening his mangled legs enough to get him onto the backboard as a collar was strapped around his neck.

James and Jeremy clung to each other even as the firefighters yelled for them to move further back. The air medics yelled for them to get away from the spinning blades. Security yelled. Production staff yelled. Everyone was yelling but Richard. Tears streamed down Jeremy’s face as his fingers dug into James’ skin. James watched in shock, not believing that it had happened again and not processing what was around them.

One of the medics jogged over. “We can only take one.” He was hard to hear over the background noise. Jeremy wasn’t sure what he was asking.

“I know his medical history.” James was pulling away from Jeremy, and Jeremy only clung on harder. James pushed, not kindly, and stepped away from Jeremy leaving him without support.

“Derriford in Plymouth,” the jumpsuited man took James away with him and Jeremy watched as James climbed on the helicopter after the trolley was loaded up. 

They were up and away quickly in a storm of wind and deafening noise, leaving Jeremy to look at the deep ruts in the dirt and the puddles of blood. Plastic medical packaging had flown everywhere under the rotors. By the time Jeremy looked up again they were gone, like they’d never been here in the first place.


	30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

Dazed, Jeremy found himself out in west London. It was nearing morning and things were still blurry. He felt dreadful and the hangover was already horrible. He looked around and vaguely recognized a few pubs, heading along the river with his hand on the iron railing. At least it was early and only a few hardy joggers noticed him crawl along. He’d done this early morning stumble with James a few times and knew he wasn’t far from the Hammersmith Hovel. The sun was barely peeking through the London haze as he reached the church and turned, dragging his feet with sheer will and determination.

He collapsed against the door and hoped James was home. It should have been enough to trip his video doorbell, one of the more modern things Sarah had insisted on installing. 

“Hello?” came from the tinny speaker. Sarah was watching at least, someone could help him without too much fuss. He tried to mumble something and waived his arm a bit, at least letting the camera know he was there. “Jeremy?” Yes, that was it. She would come help him. “James, Jeremy is at the door.” Sarah must have taken her finger off the button because the line dropped dead. Jeremy leaned against the door and focused on breathing. He heard heavy steps thud down the stairs and work the locks. He fell into the house as James opened his door.

“Hell, man,” James said, looking at Jeremy laid out in his entryway. “At least get up.”

Jeremy couldn’t, there was no way. He just worked at breathing and ignoring his headache. He must have drank the entire river for the way he felt.

James looped an arm under his armpit and dragged him to the sofa, sitting him up and watching as he collapsed into the corner. His stomach hurt, like he’d pulled a muscle or something. And his arm...

“Have you been on a bender?” James loomed over him. Oddly enough, Jeremy didn’t remember drinking more than a few. He could usually handle quite a bit more before he got to the blacking out stage. And he usually remembered singing and dancing or laughing, whatever he was happily doing while pissed. When Jeremy only garbled an answer James bent in for a closer look. “You alright?”

A hand landed on his forehead. It felt pleasingly cool.

“Jeremy...” James started pulling Jeremy’s jacket from his limp body. “You’re burning up. Sarah?” he called up the stairs. “Can you bring a thermometer and the paracetamol?” With a few tugs his jacket was off and discarded. “What the...” James had his arm now, looking at something. “Have you been to hospital?”

Weakly Jeremy lifted his head. The crook of his arm was bandaged, terribly, and blood spotted at the wrapping. That hadn’t been there last night. “Huh,” he got out. James searched for a hospital nameband and them started to awkwardly rummage through Jeremy's pockets.

His stomach hurt again as James reached under his bum. James flipped through his wallet, finding nothing unusual. “Did that hurt?” Jeremy nodded. Carefully, James set his fingers on Jeremy’s belly. “I’m going to have to lift your shirt.”

“Knew you... shirtlifter...” 

James chuckled. “As if.” His face dropped quickly when he’d gotten Jeremy’s shirt untucked. Jeremy hadn’t heard anyone suck in their breath that way in quite a while. Jeremy tried to roll his head around again to look but couldn’t see over his pudgy lump. “Stay still,” he warned quietly. “Sarah!”

“I just got him some water and...” She was just coming down the stairs, light on her ballet loving feet.

“Nevermind, call 999.” Sarah looked at the bloodsoaked dressing through James’ hand. It was too clean of a patch up to be a knife fight. Someone had known what they were doing.


	31. FREESTYLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a prompt for 31, but I didn't like it and couldn't do anything with it, so my mind came up with its own little thing.  
> Warning for mentions of serial killer/killings.

James buying the Roy when he did had been a fortuitous move. After the lock downs tapered off and the world got on with things, a few wise moves on his end set up for his retirement and final years. Jeremy had to relinquish the farm to younger owners and Hammond had an easy place to visit and stay when he missed their company. 

Some of the rooms above the Roy had been converted into Care suites, James and Jeremy’s aides and nurses coming in at all hours and getting a free meal on the house for their kindness. James had his beautiful country view out of the windows, and Jeremy had the companionship that he couldn’t be without. Even if James was crotchety and incontinent he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in his last years.

Hammond had stopped driving after his legs gave out and was driven over for weekday visits by Izzy, now gray herself and watching her own children partner off and plan lives. She stayed nearby for a while after dropping Richard off, fetching them drinks and making sure they were settled before she headed back to Ross. Today was an exception. She had some event in London tomorrow and opted to spend the night in the Roy with her father and his friends.

She felt like a glorified bar tender, keeping up with their still prodigious alcohol consumption. James had been banned from alcohol by his doctors, but he hadn’t listened and no one was left to make him mind. Jeremy guzzled wine and Richard still liked his gin, each of them enjoying what was left even if it hurried end times along slightly.

They were always chatty when the three of them got back together. They relived old glory days and told the same tales over and over, enough that Izzy knew many of them and could only smirk at some of the things they’d gotten away with. There was a lot of discussion about the news and the world, arguments over new cars that none of them would ever be able to drive. Occasionally Richard would find something on his phone or bring in something he’d bought. The mantle had a small collection of knick-knacks that formed around the yellow flowers Jeremy had delivered every week for James. 

Izzy had thought it was touching. James fake gagged every time, but yet the flowers were put up and James would spend hours staring at them.

When the mood was right they played games. Not monopoly, not when James cheated every time. Not everyone was onboard with poker. Sometimes it was cribbage - Jeremy and Richard were convinced James was cheating again but they could never prove it. Sometimes it was Scrabble or Cluedo. Until someone got upset and inevitably the board was swept from the table.

Izzy watched with her own glass of wine as they bickered like normal. It was ‘the news’ segment all over again but just for their own ears. She thought of recording them a few times but their privacy won out in the end. They’d put in their time in the limelight and now it was time to just enjoy each other’s company. 

She refilled drinks and brought up snacks from the bar kitchen. Jeremy laughed at something as James rolled his eyes. Her father never looked happier and even though she was an outsider their joy became her own. When the time was right, if he couldn’t stay in Ross anymore, Izzy was going to suggest moving into the Roy. Willow had been the one to bring it up at first after seeing how renewed and lively Richard had been after spending time with his friends. It hadn’t been a bad idea, and might even have some merit while he was fairly healthy.

The night wore on and someone suggested they play Truth or Dare. Jeremy was a few bottles of wine into it and found the idea hilarious.

“What could we possibly dare each other to do?” he asked. “Dare May to go without his nappies?”

Izzy looked up from her phone and wine at the uncalled for comment, watching as James wound up to be as offended as he could ever get. “I think that’s more of a dare for me,” she butted it. “I’m not playing.”

They turned to look at her, likely forgetting she was camped out on the small settee. “I would never...”

Izzy let her face soften into a loving smile. “I know Uncle James. “Him, on the other hand...” She pointed at her father who likely wouldn’t think fully through anything he dared someone else.

Izzy snuggled up with her old Good Omens fanfics and ignored the men for as long as she could. They’d let her know when they needed something. She finished rereading an old favourite and the sun had long since set. Her glass was empty and surely the guys would want more drinks or help going to the loo. She listened to their game, which had morphed into ‘Never Have I Ever’ more than truth or dare. There was some intense debate going on, hopefully not about tampons. She was ignored as she opened another bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. It would be a long night before any of the trio wanted to sleep, even if she excused herself and went to her own room they’d carry on for hours. 

“Ok, I’ve got one.” Richard looked ready to burst. “Never have I ever killed anyone.” Whoa. Izzy wasn’t ready for such a heavy topic, so she stayed quiet and out of the way. Izzy thought it would have been simple no’s all around. “I’ve not,” Richard volunteered and waited for the others.

“Well, technically no.” Jeremy was looking at his wine but she could see the memories running through his mind. “I still feel responsible for Gilly’s death. And my mother’s.”

“Bollocks, Jeremy.” Richard tried to talk him out of what was still a very dark area. “Gilly had cancer, and so did your mum. No one could have done anything more for either of them.” Gilly had the ‘Full English’ of cancer as he had put it, and Jeremy hadn’t kept up on his mother’s medical appointments and blamed himself for when they found the lump so late.

“That’s why it’s technically no. Doesn’t change the way I feel.” Izzy felt for Jeremy. The man had a big heart under all of his bluster and it was a shame most people never got to see it.

“James?” Richard’s voice was hesitant, like he thought he might actually get an answer out of the private man.

They watched as James held his pint glass. It was mostly empty and covered in fingerprints and left over foam, something a poet would draw comparisons to his own life. “I have,” he said softly. Izzy felt her heart stop in her chest. James wasn’t in one of his joking moods.

“James,” Richard tried to smooth over. Izzy couldn’t even think of the circumstances that James would have killed someone. Maybe a car crash or some odd, random accident.

James glared at Richard hard enough that he shut up. Whatever James was going to reveal was obviously news to the other two as well.

“It was the late 80’s, so before you blighters stumbled along.” Richard and Jeremy sat with rapt attention. “They were young, homeless... I’d buy them drinks and take them back to my flat.”

“James, you don’t have to...” James raised his hand and cut Jeremy off. 

“I’d learned not to bury them in the garden and not to cut them up and flush them down the toilet.” Izzy was having a hard time understanding. Where had James learned how *not* to get rid of a body? And who... why?

“The first one was almost an accident.” The room was so quiet one could have heard a pin drop. “We’d gotten into bed and I was choking him as I was fucking him and I grabbed a bit too hard for too long as he passed out.” Richard had a hand over his mouth and Jeremy had gone white as a sheet. “I kept fucking him while he was passed out, and then he started to come around a bit and was fighting, so I took his belt and strangled him.”

Izzy felt cold but she didn’t dare move.

“I didn’t know what to do with him, but after a few days he started to smell awful so I dumped him in the river at night.”

“Did you have sex with .. him?” Jeremy asked. “After...?”

James nodded. “But I couldn’t look at his face. They always had to be on their stomachs after.” It was such a damning little detail. “I stopped after the third one. He was already suicidal and didn’t struggle at at all.” James paused, remembering. “And I was starting to get recognized, so I stopped.”

What the hell did one say after something like that? The found body cases were likely long closed and James himself didn’t have long to live. His last years of soiling himself and being a shut in were the only punishment he would get.

“How... how...” Jeremy seemed stuck, unable to get out any formed thoughts.

“How did I stop?” Jeremy nodded. “I went to those clubs you loved to tease me about. I could do what I wanted, within reason, and there was always someone willing to let me do it to them.”

“But you didn’t...”

“No, I didn’t kill anyone after that.”

The game had been over for a long time. Izzy would have to talk to Willow about altering their father’s living arrangements.

“Would you kill me?” Jeremy was still pale and the gravitas of the situation hung over them like a funeral drape.

James looked at Jeremy with eager eyes. “Only if you asked me to.”

Jeremy stared back at James before looking past him and to the yellow flowers still sitting proudly on the mantle.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [Ymas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymas/pseuds/Ymas) Log in to view. 




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